Pilferage at the greengrocer's, traced to a small boy with a taste for fruit. A domestic matter, where a wife had accused her husband of spending more time than was necessary-in her view- repairing a chimney flue at Mrs. Melford's house.
He set the files back into their box and stood, looking around the room. There were no photographs here-or in the bedroom for that matter. And little else of a personal nature. But he'd discovered a letter in a desk drawer, a commendation from the then Chief Inspector Bowles for Hensley's services in apprehending a murderer in the City.
Then why was Hensley in this outpost of empire, serving his time chasing after lost dogs and calming irate wives?
It was apparent that Hensley had kept the commendation letter with some pride…
Rutledge glanced at the wall clock and saw that he had three minutes to get himself to the Melford house for breakfast.
The meal was as well cooked as last night's dinner, the eggs done exactly to his taste, but he asked as the toast was brought in, 'I tried to find a room at The Oaks. They all but turned me away. Do you know why?'
'Mr. Keating has always been a private sort. He doesn't seem to care for guests staying there, not beyond one night. Mostly he serves meals to travelers, and of course the pub is popular with the men here in Dudlington.'
'Who was the woman? An employee? Or his wife?'
She laughed, breaking the stern set of her face. 'She may wish she was his wife, but Frank Keating is a misogynist. The woman is Hillary Timmons. She lives near the church. There aren't many opportunities for employment here.'
'Which is why you feed Constable Hensley for a price.'
'Indeed. I'll just fetch the warm milk for your tea.' Dr. Middleton was an elderly man, his face lined but cheerful. He welcomed Rutledge with a nod and took him back to his surgery, which was no more than a room at the rear of his house.
'Did you see Hensley? How is he faring?'
'Well enough. In pain.'
'I should think he was. That arrow was in deep.'
'How long have you been the doctor here?'
'Seven years last month. I retired from practice and came here to die. But I haven't had time to get around to that.' He sat behind the table in a corner that served as his desk and gestured to a chair on the other side. 'My wife died, and I lost interest in living. She was born in Dudling- ton and is buried in the churchyard. I feel closer to her here.'
'Where had you lived before?'
'Naseby. It's not a very challenging practice, but I'm the only doctor within twenty miles. Babies and burns and bumps, that's mostly the extent of my duties.'
'Dudlington is a quiet village. There was hardly a soul on the streets when I came in last night.'
'That's an illusion. For one thing, there's the weather this time of year. The wind howling across those wide fields doesn't invite you to stop on the street and pass the time of day for a quarter of an hour. And the men are mostly stockmen, up at dawn and home after the livestock has been fed and bedded for the night. Many of them come home for their midday meal, which means their wives spend a good part of their day in their kitchens. They do their marketing in the morning, and this time of year, it's dark by the time the children come in from Letherington, where they're schooled now. We had a schoolmaster before the war, but he enlisted as soon as Belgium was invaded. He hasn't been replaced.'
'Did Constable Hensley have trouble keeping the peace? His records are sparse, and it's hard to judge if that's because the village is relatively quiet, or because he was behind in his paperwork.'
'We've had our share of trouble, I won't deny that. On the other hand, people often don't bother to lock their doors. Human beings are human beings, which translates into the fact that you don't know what they're capable of until they're pressed. Still, we seldom have the sort of crimes you'd find in London. Arson, rape, breaking and entering, theft of property. It doesn't mean that we're better than Londoners, just that we know one another very well, and the man who steals my horse can hardly ride it down Church Street without half the householders recognizing it on the spot.' He smiled. 'But don't be fooled. Everyone knows your business as soon as you set foot in Dudlington. Gossip is our pastime, and you'll do no better than Constable Hensley at ferreting it out.' The smile broadened. 'I shan't be surprised to see a flurry of patients this afternoon with all manner of minor complaints. Every one of them expecting me to tell them what I made of this man from London.'
'Then what does gossip have to say about someone nearly killing Hensley with a bow and arrow?'
The smile vanished. 'Ah. That I haven't been privy to. I wish I were.'
'Then tell me about Frith's Wood, where Hensley was found.'
'It's not a place people frequent.' Middleton sighed. 'Case in point. No one has ever cut firewood there, they don't wander there on a quiet summer's evening, and they will walk out of their way to avoid having to pass in its shadow. My late wife told me she'd never played there as a child, which tells you something. There's an old legend about a massacre there in the dim dark past, and such superstitions tend to strengthen with time. Consequently, the wood is avoided.'
'Have you ever walked in the wood yourself?'
'Never. Except for once about three years ago. Not because I'm superstitious, but it would upset people. Why meddle?'
'Tell me about finding Hensley.'
'It was nearly teatime. I was sitting in my chair in the parlor, napping, when Ted Baylor came to my door. His dog heard something in the direction of the wood and began barking. Baylor wasn't inclined to investigate, but after he'd seen to his livestock, he decided he'd better discover what the dog was on about, before it got dark. When Baylor let him out of the yard, the dog made straight for the wood, disappeared into it, and barked again. Baylor was of two minds about what to do, but he finally went in after the dog, and there was Hensley lying on the ground, cold as a fish. Ted thought he was dead, and told me as much. But it was shock and the cold air, and I managed to bring him around once I got him here and warmed again.'
'And you broke the shaft of the arrow?'
'There wasn't any choice in the matter. I couldn't very well leave it sticking out of his back. I asked Ted Baylor and Bob Johnson to hold it steady while I cut it with my knife. I thought the tip would come out without doing more harm, but it was lodged in the rib, and I don't have the facilities here for major surgery.'
'Do you still have the shaft?'
Middleton pointed to a basket on a table under the window. 'It's in there. Nothing distinctive about it. Just an arrow fletched with blue and yellow feathers.'
Rutledge crossed the room to examine it. Middleton was right, the shaft was wood, and not homemade. The feathers appeared to be a little bedraggled, but from age or use, he couldn't say. Their condition hadn't stopped the arrow from flying true-or again, perhaps it had, if the bowman had intended a killing shot.
Hamish said, 'It's no' possible to tell if this was a woman or a man. Or how far fra' the target the archer was standing. If yon arrow was aimed at the constable's back, the archer didna' care whether his victim lived or died.'
'He lay there in the wood for several hours. No one came back to finish what the arrow had begun,' Rutledge agreed, unaware that he was answering Hamish aloud.
Middleton said, 'It's not likely someone went to the wood to practice at the butts. For one thing the trees are too close together, and for another, it's just not done. Not here in Dudlington, at any rate. Unless you were an outsider and didn't know the history of the place. Of course, if you were looking to murder Hensley, I suppose that was a prime place to do it. Superstition or no superstition. But that makes no sense. You could slip into his house and cut his throat while he slept, if that's what you were after, and not take a chance on being seen walking into Frith's Wood. Or risk finding out that the tales of haunting are true.'
'What became of Hensley's bicycle? He claims he was riding it on the main road, before he was attacked.'
'I don't suppose anyone thought to look for it. I for one believed he'd been on foot. There was no sign of it near his body, I can tell you that.'
